


The List

by foryouandbits



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Big Brother Mycroft, Brotp, Drug Use, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5657260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foryouandbits/pseuds/foryouandbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Mycroft Holmes was there for Sherlock and the one time he didn't need to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The first time Mycroft saw his little brother high, Sherlock was nineteen years old. Sherlock lay on the floor of his bedroom, face-down in a pile of his own vomit, sweat beaded in a sticky sheen on his forehead, the curls of his too-long hair plastered all around the crown of his head.

Sherlock face-down on the floor of his bedroom was not uncommon. When they were children Sherlock would go and go and go until he literally collapsed in whatever position occurred before he couldn’t fight it any longer, be it in a chair, on the dining room table, or, more often than not, on the floor of his bedroom. Sherlock surrounded by vomit was also not uncommon. The boy conducted so many experiments with toxic chemicals and putrid mould cultures it was a surprise he had not poisoned himself irreversibly. Sweaty Sherlock was a little less common. He participated in dance and karate lessons when forced, but apart from that he avoided physical activity as much as possible.

All three of these together, however, had never occurred before.

Mycroft was visiting the family estate with the single intention of seeing his brother again. Sherlock was home for the first time since uni, and Mycroft was teeming to learn if he ever adjusted properly. Sherlock did not reply to Mycroft’s letters of inquiry, probably due to their dull nature –

_Dear brother,_

_How is school? Have you made friends? Have you at least gone to class?_

_Dear brother,_

_I assume from your lack of reply you are entirely too busy with all of your new social contacts to remember that your elder brother was once a student at this very university, and while Chemistry was not my milieu, I excelled in every course I took._

_Dear brother,_

_Mummy is very concerned that she has not heard from you. I, on the other hand, know that you are trending to pass all of your classes, so you must have at least sat an exam or two, and want to let you know that if you come home for Christmas, I will be able to regale you with the goings-on of foreign officials who, as you may expect, are up to no good._

_Dear brother,_

_Please, at least, come home for summer._

– so Mycroft was forced to visit home as well to simply see him again. It would appear that Sherlock wished to stay on campus through the summer, but as he had no flat and the dormitory closed not long after final exams, Sherlock returned home with much reluctance.

When Mycroft returned home just in time for dinner, he ate with his parents and stared at the empty chair across from his spot at the family table, unsurprised that Sherlock was not present for the meal. “He’s skin and bones,” Mummy had said, “and more so than before he left. He may be old enough to take care of himself but he obviously doesn’t. Your father had to tie him to the chair just to get him to eat one meal a day.”

“I remember, Mummy,” said Mycroft; Sherlock as a child used to struggle so badly to return to his experiments they would strap him into his seat until he ate a full meal.

“That was just this past August,” said Mummy.

“He’s surprisingly still easy to lift,” chimed in his father, “despite being so tall.”

After dinner Mycroft walked up the stairs to Sherlock’s room with a plate in his hand that Sherlock would never eat but possibly process for cultures once it spoiled thoroughly enough. He did not bother to knock – Sherlock would ignore him regardless – and entered the bedroom to find his brother passed out on the floor, and not in the familiar way.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft with a sense of urgency. The cause of Sherlock’s unconscious state was easy to deduce and Mycroft was glad Mummy didn’t try to bring the plate up herself. Sherlock wore his dressing gown over his t-shirt and pajama bottoms and clearly had not changed his clothes in several days. The smell was evident even apart from the vomit drying on the floor. A disposable syringe, thankfully new, lay haphazardly next to Sherlock’s right hand. A bottle of clear solution had rolled near the bed, stopped only by a rubber tube Sherlock had used to tie off his arm. It did not take Mycroft-level genius, or even Sherlock-level genius, to understand what had happened here.

Mycroft dropped the plate loudly onto Sherlock’s cluttered wooden desk and when Sherlock didn’t stir, Mycroft felt his heart began to beat quickly inside of his chest. There was anger inside of him, he could feel it, but his concern edged out over the anger when his voice refused to rouse his brother. “Sherlock, wake up!”

Mycroft unbuttoned his suit jacket and knelt on the floor beside Sherlock, the smell intensifying now that Mycroft was close. Mycroft attempted to physically rouse Sherlock. It wasn’t until Mycroft rolled Sherlock onto his back and slapped him across the face that his brother’s sharp blue eyes finally snapped open.

“Sherlock,” breathed Mycroft in relief, but the feeling was brief and unwarranted. Sherlock’s eyes were glossy in his stupor, unfocused and very unlike the little boy Mycroft had left less than a year prior. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? Where did you get this?”

“Mycroft,” muttered Sherlock. His eyes closed again, gently this time, purposefully. “What are you doing in my room?”

“What are you doing on the floor? And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Your question is boring,” said Sherlock.

Sherlock had physically changed quite a bit since Mycroft moved out of the house, which was to be expected. Sherlock was only eleven at the time, chubby in the cheeks and, while obviously hyper intelligent with a mind that focused solely on his experiments and studies instead of practical things like food or friends, he was a very kind child. He outgrew his chubbiness at thirteen and stretched out into a tall and lanky beanpole with an incredibly deep voice. Mycroft only witnessed the beginning of Sherlock’s teenage years while on breaks from university and thus did not see his transformation from a jovial, brilliant child to a quiet, withdrawn teenager. Mummy complained that Sherlock didn’t leave his room and began to avoid the family altogether when Mycroft officially moved to London, but this attitude – the insolence – was new.

“Sit up, Sherlock, and answer me,” said Mycroft. Sherlock did not respond to the iciness in Mycroft’s voice, so Mycroft physically pulled Sherlock off the floor and threw him into his black leather desk chair. It was simple and their father was right; Sherlock was incredibly easy to lift.

“What is wrong with you?” Sherlock yelled as he struggled against his brother’s grip. It didn’t matter, he was in the chair and would stay in the chair. “Why are you even here, Mycroft?”

“I came to see you,” said Mycroft.

“I didn’t ask to see you,” replied Sherlock. He pressed his hand to his temple and shut his eyes. “No one here needs you any longer. It’d be best if you returned to London and left us behind to rot in peace.” Mycroft held fast to the collar of Sherlock’s t-shirt on the opposite side of the vomit.

“I asked you a question, Sherlock.”

“And I said your question is boring. Leave me be.”

“Do we have to do it like this? Do I need to get Mummy involved, like when we were children?” Sherlock opened his eyes which darted to the pile of sick on the floor. “You’ve managed to keep her in the dark for what I surmise is the entirety of the school year. How quickly did you fall into drugs, Sherlock? Did you even make it a week?”

“What does it matter? It helps me think. It keeps me from being bored.”

“You’ve been home for two days.”

“And for two days I have been bored, Mycroft. I didn’t want to come home. There’s nothing to do here. Mummy and Father are the two most boring people I have ever met and you left me here to sit with them for an entire summer. What am I supposed to do for three more months?”

Satisfied that Sherlock would not scamper, Mycroft released the t-shirt and sat on the edge of Sherlock’s desk. “Who is giving it to you?”

“What does it matter?” snapped Sherlock. “When are you leaving?”

“I can find out on my own, but I might need to get the school involved. Clearly you have a regular contact if you’ve used for this long, so I’d hate to see a scandal emerge from this.” Sherlock did not reply. “His name, Sherlock.”

“Victor,” breathed Sherlock, his voice unnecessarily low and reverent.

“Victor,” repeated Mycroft. “Victor whom?”

“Is that not enough?” Sherlock asked.

“I suppose it is. I certainly hope you are paying outright for it and not trading, as they would say.” Sherlock suddenly lunged for Mycroft, pushing his brother off of the desk and onto the floor where Mycroft thankfully avoided any of the mess on the hardwood. “It may go down that road, Sherlock. Keep your wits about you.”

“Get out,” Sherlock growled.

“You will clean this up,” said Mycroft. He stood, straightened his waistcoat and tie and rebuttoned his blazer. “If the maid finds it she’ll certainly tell Mummy.” Sherlock stood and pointed to the door. Mycroft headed in that direction but paused before he turned the doorknob. He peered back over his shoulder. “You are above this, Sherlock. You have a brilliant mind and a lifetime to show it off. Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

“Out!”

Mycroft opened the door and left. Once in the hallway, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, fighting back the swell of emotion that entered his chest.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has several references to a case involving Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) and infant homicide in relation to that case. Please skip if these are triggers for you.

The second time Mycroft found his brother, Sherlock was twenty-one and fresh out of university. It had not been two weeks since graduation – his marks were nothing extraordinary; he did not graduate top of his class but did graduate with honours, so he at the very least had options available to him. It did not seem to matter to Sherlock, however, who was found sitting cross legged in his flat, his fingers steepled under his chin, his gears of his mind audible from the doorway.

Sherlock at least had enough self-respect to wear trousers and a button-down in this encounter and did not look to be ill at all, which either meant he had become so acclimatized to his use that he no longer felt ill when high or that he had grown rather exceptional at hiding it.

It took several blows to the arm with the side of Mycroft’s umbrella before Sherlock roused. Then, upon seeing Mycroft, immediately closed his eyes again.

“What are you doing here?”

“You’ve been unresponsive to all forms of communication, brother mine, for nearly two weeks now. Mummy’s worried out of her mind and you know how much she loves to worry,” said Mycroft. “Are you planning to return home?”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asked.

“Seeing as you have no job and no prospects, you’re sure to run out of money at some point.”

“Mummy will just give me more money,” said Sherlock.

“That would require talking to her,” explained Mycroft.

“Not necessarily,” said Sherlock. “Is that the only reason you’re here? I’m busy.”

“Clearly,” said Mycroft. He scanned the room; every mug that Sherlock owned was placed either on the floor, on the coffee table, on the desk, or, in the case of Sherlock’s favorite mug simply because it was smaller than the rest, on the windowsill. They varied in levels of cold tea and apart from several scattered textbooks and newspapers, the rest of the room was empty. No food. No black box with glass syringe. “And what, pray tell, is on your mind today, Sherlock?”

“Sally Clark.”

“Sally Clark? The solicitor?”

“Her first son died of what was clearly sudden infant death syndrome and her second son died of what was said to be the same thing. Two sons dead in the span of thirteen months of the same rare syndrome? Less than half a percent of all births result in SIDS. Suspicious, yes. But there’s considerable doubt regarding her involvement. Why would a mother go against her natural instinct and kill her child not once but twice? Why would they not perform a full range of tests on both children?”

“And how does this concern you, Sherlock?” asked Mycroft. “Sally Clark lives in Cheshire, two hundred miles away.”

“I was acting it out in my mind palace –“

“Sherlock.”

“- and it’s not right. It doesn’t fit. Then you walked in and I’ve lost my place.”

“Sherlock.”

“What, Mycroft?” Sherlock yelled and Mycroft stared at his brother. “This is what you told me to do. You told me to occupy myself, to build up my mind palace so I could sort it out.”

“Your mind palace is to store memories so you can access them later. To put in facts that you will need in the future. It cannot act out scenarios whenever you see fit. What have you been doing to supplement?”

“I’ve done nothing –“

Mycroft stood from the chair and began sorting through papers on the desk. Sherlock also stood from the floor and grabbed hold of Mycroft’s arm to stop him, but just as Sherlock was able to wrestle his brother from the desk Mycroft extracted a black box with a blue silk lining and a recently-used needle. Sherlock let go of Mycroft’s arm and looked at the floor.

“Again, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. “Victor Trevor has graduated as well and moved back to Manchester. Is that why you’re looking into this case?”

“She could be imprisoned if they don’t conduct the right tests. Both babies did not die of SIDS, the second one clearly had some kind of illness that was undetected –“

“And so you thought you’d pop up to Cheshire, then? Set it straight? See your lover on the way?”

“He’s not my – give me that,” Sherlock grabbed the case from Mycroft’s hands and snapped it shut. “It was never that way, Mycroft. He was just my…”

“Your what?” asked Mycroft.

“Dealer,” replied Sherlock. “And so what if I was planning to see him on the way? I would have saved a traumatized woman from life imprisonment and humiliated a few specialists in the process. I would have done something good and worthwhile.”

“Nothing is worthwhile if it ends in this, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “Give it to me.”

“Have you gained weight?” Sherlock observed, glancing over Mycroft’s usual suit. His eyes lingered too long on the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft with a gesture. Sherlock did not move.

“No. I’ve nothing to do now. School is over and people are boring. What am I if I have to stay here and sit all day?”

“You’ll figure it out, Sherlock. Not everyone knows what they want to do for the rest of their life when they graduate university.”

“You did,” replied Sherlock. Mycroft looked down into his brother’s eyes; Sherlock may have sprouted to a considerable height over his teenage years, but Mycroft relished in the fact that he had remained the taller brother. It helped with intimidation, but at the present moment, as he looked past the curls on Sherlock’s forehead and into his today-green eyes, it just made Mycroft realize that Sherlock was still a very young man. An impertinent man, but a young man all the same. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft through the haze of his narcotized stupor, his intelligence dulled when Sherlock thought it sharpened. The eyes, the multi-faceted colors that changed with the angles of light and Sherlock’s wardrobe, had always looked up at Mycroft in the same way.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft like this when he was six years old, caked from head to toe in mud and hiding behind Redbeard to avoid a scolding. Mycroft could see the vivid sienna of Redbeard’s coat and there, just behind the dog’s head, were Sherlock’s green eyes. Just in the same shade. Sherlock said he was looking for the beetle he’d been following the majority of the morning. Sherlock said he followed the beetle into the forest, over mossy logs, and then up into a tree where he then proceeded to fall directly into a mud puddle leftover from the early morning rain. The mud wasn’t deep, he said, just wide, and Redbeard waited patiently out of the way of the mess to lead Sherlock back inside the house. Mycroft followed the footprints of Sherlock’s hiking boots through the tile in the entryway to the hardwood floor of the foyer and through the white carpeting in Mummy’s sitting room. Mummy would be appalled at the state of the floor and Sherlock tried not to cry when Mycroft began to yell.

“I am lucky,” said Mycroft to his twenty-one-year-old brother. “I have a talent that was recognized and I did not have to choose. You, on the other hand, have extraordinary talent that you do not let others see. How will it be recognized if no one can see it?”

“Others,” spat Sherlock and the hardness returned to his gaze before he turned away, the black case still held tightly in his hands. “All other people say is ‘Piss off, Holmes, no one cares where the dirt on our boots came from. No one cares that Bridget and Michael shagged last night, it’s what people do.’ They should care. The dirt on the boots tells me they went the long way to the clinic to avoid being seen and people should care that Bridget and Michael are shagging because Michael has chlamydia and Bridget gave it to half the university by the end of the year.”

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft and Sherlock threw his case into his chair and sat down on top of it so Mycroft wouldn’t reach for it again. “There are other, more practical uses for your talent than deducing who has chlamydia.” Sherlock pulled his long legs up to his chest and rested his arms atop his knees. “Go back to school. Get your graduate degree. Stay away from Victor Trevor.”

“Why are you still here?” Sherlock asked viciously.

“I ask myself that constantly,” replied Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case of Sally Clark is a real-life case where the mother was convicted of killing her two sons, and then about 5 years later won an appeal and her conviction was overturned. If we're following an accurate timeline of Sherlock's life based on his age in the show, this trial wouldn't occur until Sherlock was older, so let's just ignore that.


	3. Chapter Three

Sherlock was twenty-five when Mycroft found him unresponsive on the frozen brick of an alley not far from an unreputable doss house, his skin bright red from the cold. He wore no coat, his sweatpants thin and old, his shirt tattered at the elbows but, at the very least, long-sleeved. He should be shaking to retain heat, but his body lay quite still on the ground even during Mycroft’s desperate attempts to rouse him, through shouts and slaps and, finally, a close hug when Mycroft wrapped his arms tightly around his little brother, hoping his own warmth would transfer over.

“Sherlock, wake up,” muttered Mycroft although he knew, he knew on both subconscious and conscious levels, that Sherlock was far from the reaches of his voice. “Wake up. Wake up.”

Sherlock did wake up but not until much later in a hospital bed under a pile of blankets. Mycroft sat close by in a chair, his elbows on Sherlock’s bed, his fingers pressing against his lips as he stared and stared and stared until Sherlock’s eyes began to open. It should have been a relief. After several hours of detoxification and heat wraps to return Sherlock’s temperature and chemical balances to normal, it should have been a relief to see him awake and alert. It was not a relief.

“What the hell are you doing to yourself, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock responded, his voice hoarse from intubation. Sherlock glanced at the side table for water; Mycroft did not move.

“I’ve been looking for you for weeks. Weeks, Sherlock. Mrs. Turner said she kicked you out of the flat when you couldn’t pay rent. You had a job but I can assure you that is no longer the case. I’ve been in and out of the most appalling houses on this side of London and no one has seen you. I find you passed out in an alley with no idea what you’ve taken or when, when you’ve last eaten, when you last had a place to sleep. What are you doing?”

“I assure you that it’s nothing to do with you, Mycroft.” Sherlock attempted to sit up but winced.

“They had to pump your stomach, Sherlock. It did no good as you’ve injected nearly everything under the sun into your arms. What’s next? Turning tricks for favors under the bridges so you can score a fix? You’re a graduate chemist for God’s sake, Sherlock. I don’t have to tell you that you know better than this.”

“And yet,” said Sherlock, who attempted to sit up again, this time successfully, and poured himself a cup of water.

“You nearly died.”

“And yet,” repeated Sherlock with a lift his eyebrow.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft and Mycroft looked purposefully down at his hands. “I am your brother. I am your only brother and to wit I am the only one who can possibly understand the goings-on of your mind. We can both agree that I am the cleverer of us two –“

“Is this going somewhere?” Sherlock asked, his voice less scratchy now that he’d downed two cups of water.

“– and because I am the cleverer of us two, I must tell you that despite what you do, despite where you end up and what you say to me when you get there, I will always find you. I will always be there to bring you back home.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft; Mycroft could feel it, but he dared not look back. There were tears when the doctors listed the cocktail of narcotics in Sherlock’s system, tears in front of another human being. Mycroft had to hide in a closet for thirty minutes before the tears went away and when he emerged he perched himself at Sherlock’s bedside and had not moved since. Mycroft knew if he looked up at his brother there would be tears for the second time that day, when prior to this there had not been tears for twenty years.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and quiet.

“I need you to promise me,” Mycroft said with a sharp intake of breath, one that allowed him to reclaim his emotion and look clearly at his brother, “that you will be responsible.”

“If you’re asking me to quit –“

“I’m asking you to be responsible. You will get clean today regardless of how I feel. Our parents were called without my consent and they will insist you get clean. You’ll be placed in a rehabilitation facility that you no doubt will despise and will more than likely not work. If you have to turn to this for whatever reason – to feel something, to feel nothing, to not be bored, to focus, whatever your justification is – promise me you’ll at least make a list.”

“A list?” Sherlock asked. “Of what?”

“Of everything,” said Mycroft. “Everything you’ve taken. Don’t make me go through this again.”

Sherlock nodded his head.

“I promise.”


	4. Chapter Four

The fourth time Mycroft was involved in Sherlock's drug use was not the fourth time Mycroft discovered his brother high, nor was it anywhere near close to the fourth time Sherlock actually used cocaine. Sherlock entered rehab as instructed and, as Mycroft had accurately predicted, it was ineffective. Upon completion from the clinic Sherlock moved into a flat against Mycroft's recommendations. Mycroft now resided in the family estate alone; their parents had returned to America after a brief interruption which involved them returning to London to cry and moan over their son the drug addict, beg him to quit throwing his life away (Mummy was particularly appalling during this scene; she wept openly at Sherlock's bedside and made everybody in the room uncomfortable). Mycroft insisted that Sherlock return home under the elder brother's direct supervision and care, but as with nearly everything Mycroft insisted, Sherlock blatantly refused.

There were several incidents over the subsequent year where Mycroft found Sherlock on the floor of the flat, spread out next to his paraphernalia but, at the very least, responsive. When Mycroft asked for the list it was always promptly presented until the point where Mycroft no longer needed to ask; he would enter Sherlock's flat without knocking and find the list next to the needle and bottle, now just part of the routine.

This time, however, when Mycroft entered Sherlock's dusty and cluttered flat, he found his brother quite alert. "I seem to have figured it out, Mycroft," said Sherlock as soon as his brother entered. "Do you know the string of muggings in the park recently? Why would you, it doesn't affect you."

"I know of them," said Mycroft with his usual pompous air; muggings in Regent's Park were not uncommon and the recent uptick in this specific crime made the front page of newspapers on several different occasions. It never made an impression on Mycroft; London was, after all, a significant metropolis and not all of its characters were worthy of recognition.

"The police are looking for a man with a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses. That narrows it down considerably to half the population of young people in the city, and who's to say the mugger is even from the city."

"Is he coming by train from the country just to steal purses from old biddies and hope they're full of loose change and a few pounds? Nothing of value has been reported stolen besides the usual mobile phones and wallets."

"Mock me all you will, brother mine, but he has the police baffled. The majority of muggings in the past six months have been conducted by the same man. Hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses despite the appallingly drab and wet spring we've had this year. This is not to say that he has conducted every single one of the muggings in Regent's Park over the last six months, but his regularity is quite impressive. The victims of his crime are varied but always female and always in the later stage of life. Old biddies, as you say, for the most part, but also women of a mature age, and always alone apart from a dog. Never women with small children, never couples. He approaches them from behind, takes their purse forcibly from their arm, and runs away."

"As muggers do, Sherlock."

"Obviously this has increased the patrol within the park itself and, since we are limited in our resources of the average patrolman, it has dwindled the resources of the foot patrol surrounding the park. What surrounds the park?"

"A considerable number of churches and schools. Do you mean to tell me this young man is increasing crime and thus patrol within the park so he can distract from a bigger crime within a school? Or a church?"

"Within a school. His attacks are focused purely in one area of the park, leaving the opposite area light in the number of common patrols. He must have some connection to a student in one of those schools. Perhaps a sibling, more likely a child – a young child – who he no longer can see due to custody restrictions and the increased security in schools following what's happened in America recently. He needs to draw those protectors away from the school so he can walk in when he so chooses to abduct his child and run back to the country or simply disappear. Isn't it obvious?"

Mycroft sat in the chair opposite Sherlock's and placed his umbrella across his knees as he moved forward and into Sherlock's direct line of sight which, until that moment, had skittered around the room as he explained his theory.

"Did you inform the police of your theory?"

Sherlock's face fell from the excitement over this round of deduction to his usual grimace and he steepled his fingers together near his mouth. He looked down at the floor when he replied.

"They wanted more specifics."

"Do you have more specifics?"

"Not yet."

“I see,” said Mycroft. “And did you make a list?”

Sherlock’s sharp eyes, icy blue today, shot over to Mycroft but his fingers did not move.

“I’m not high, Mycroft, I’m deducing. I’m working.”

“Working? Do you think the police are going to pay you for your unwanted deductions?”

“I’m perfectly in control of myself, which is more than I can say for you and the buttons on your waistcoat.” Mycroft stared at Sherlock, who stared back. “I’m not high, Mycroft.”

“And I’m not stupid, little brother, as you well know.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration but produced a handwritten note from inside the pocket of his dressing gown.

“As I said, I’m completely in control of myself. It’s a seven percent solution. I’ve figured out the correct concentration and dosage to hone my mind to completely focus on the task at hand without losing quality or control.”

“Without losing control, Sherlock? A man snatches bags in the park for a living and you insist it’s all a plot to kidnap his child? How is that in control?” Sherlock stood abruptly.

“If you have nothing of value to add, leave me alone. You have a country to run and if you are smothering me you don’t have time to smother the nation. Your visits are far too frequent and, as you have seen, there is nothing the matter with me. You have your list. It’s considerably shorter than you’re used to. Get out.” Mycroft opened his mouth but Sherlock pointed at the door. “Get out, Mycroft! I never gave you a key, you just walk in here like it’s your place. It isn’t your place; it’s my place! I live here by myself. I eat, I sleep, I don’t overdose. I am completely in control of myself and my life and you are not needed. You have never been needed. If I need you I will contact you, courtesy of Mummy and Daddy’s estate.”

Mycroft stood and stared at Sherlock, but instead of Sherlock’s small, afraid eyes looking back up at him, Sherlock appeared completely in control just as he said. Mycroft reached forward to him, to place a hand on his shoulder, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and twisted Mycroft around toward the door, pinning his wrist to his back so painfully that Mycroft’s entire attention was diverted to his right arm. Sherlock shepherded him to the door, shoved him through it, and slammed the door shut behind him. Mycroft carefully rubbed at his arm and looked back at the door to Sherlock’s flat. Karate lessons had been a mistake; they should have kept Sherlock in dance.

\--

Five days later there was a small column in the Times about a missing six-year-old boy from a school near Regent’s Park, allegedly abducted by his father who lived near March in Cambridgeshire. The man and boy never returned to March and had been missing for four days.

Mycroft knew it was no use apologizing to Sherlock at this point, but he did sit at his desk and stare at the wall for over an hour upon the realization that he had, in not so vulgar terms, told Sherlock to piss off.


	5. Chapter Five

Mycroft was not surprised to receive a call from a Sergeant Lestrade late in the evening on a Tuesday to request his presence at New Scotland Yard, where his brother was being detained for interfering with a police investigation. Sergeant Lestrade was incredibly polite and apologetic for the inconvenience, and when Mycroft hung up the phone it was clear that this particular officer did not agree with Sherlock’s arrest.

Mycroft entered the station and was escorted by the Sergeant to an interrogation room where Sherlock was being held. The Sergeant was a very pleasant man, older than Mycroft by not very much (although the early graying of his hair made him appear older than he was), and looked to have a very promising career ahead of him. He had not been a Sergeant for very long but from Lestrade’s frequent glances toward the homicide division and his receipt of several jovial greetings from the other staff members, it was clear he would be a Detective Inspector before the year’s end.

Sergeant Lestrade let Mycroft into the interrogation room and closed the door behind him. Sherlock was sitting at the table, his left hand cuffed to a peg in front of him, his right hand propping up his chin as he attempted to stay awake. Despite being dressed for the occasion in a tailored suit, it appeared as though he had not slept or ate in several days, his curls losing their style and going wild over his ears and forehead, the shadow of his beard growing in at the cheeks and chin. Sherlock looked thoroughly unimpressed with the entire ordeal and clearly had been ignoring the goings-on of the Inspector in front of him.

The Inspector looked at Mycroft once and noted the family resemblance.

“I’m happy you came, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Perhaps you will be able to impart upon your brother the difference between a civilian and an officer. This is the third time in a month I’ve warned him to stay away from my crime scenes and just this evening he had the gall to stop me while in the process of apprehending a wanted suspect to inform me of the supposed gaping holes in my investigation.”

“Because you apprehended the wrong man,” spat Sherlock, his eyes opening and his free hand banging loudly on the metal table in front of him. “Mr. Siczinski is an Orthodox Jew and is very loyal, for some reason, to his faith. He would not have murdered a man on Saturday when he, according to his religion, would more than likely have not even left his house.”

“It’s against his religion to murder at all and yet he was seen in the alley by two witnesses –“

“The witnesses saw a man with a beard and a black hat bludgeoning another man to death in a dark alley. Hardly a positive identification.”

“It doesn’t matter to you if they saw anything at all! You are not a member of the Metropolitan Police, Mr. Holmes, and thus your opinion has no merit here. You have an uncommon interest in the affairs of this force and it is unappreciated by all who work here. We are trying to solve crimes, Mr. Holmes. No one is interested in what you have to say.”

“I would listen to my brother if I were you, Inspector,” said Mycroft. Sherlock glanced over at his brother but otherwise made no acknowledgement of his presence.

“You’re just as bad as he is, then, aren’t you?” asked the Inspector. “If you want us to listen to your brother, then your brother can apply for a job just like everyone else.”

“I don’t want a job,” said Sherlock, “I’m perfectly capable of correcting your mistakes and solving your crimes without being at your beck and call. Release Mr. Siczinski and keep an eye out for the baker on Westmoreland. He was shorted considerably and repeatedly by his supplier, your victim, and the staff has never been particularly warm. Neither have the cinnamon buns, for that matter.”

“We have the suspect in custody, Mr. Holmes. I don’t need a junkie kid telling me this man was beaten to death with a blunt object over a few cases of butter.”

“It was tomatoes, Inspector –“

“DETECTIVE Inspector –“

“DETECTIVE Inspector. It was the tomatoes. Cases of tomatoes every week for many years. Your man was beaten to death in an alley two streets from the bakery with a blunt, wooden object, rounded on the end but long like the –“

“Like the handle of a cricket bat, which Mr. Siczinski plays on Sundays.”

“Like the handle of a ROLLING PIN, Detective Inspector. You’ll find one of the baker’s is missing, if your team were smart enough to look into it at all.”

The Inspector sat back in his chair and was silent for five full seconds before he looked at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled politely back at him, and then the Inspector stood.

“The results of your drug test will be in shortly, Mr. Holmes. If the results are what I think they are, you’ll be spending the night in our custody and although your presence infuriates every bit of me, nothing would make me happier to know that you are locked in here and away from my investigation.”

The Inspector stared down at Sherlock, who stared right back with cold, hard eyes, until the Inspector turned to leave. Before he could make it to the door, however, Mycroft leaned in closely.

“Detective Inspector, with my greatest respect, you will find that when you return to your desk there will be a phone call from a man several ranks above you with a kind request to release my brother immediately or else face certain repercussions.”

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Holmes?” asked the Inspector.

“Yes,” replied Mycroft.

The Inspector opened his mouth to reply in a short temper, but the sight of Mycroft’s calm demure and eyebrows raised in question allowed him to think the better of it, and he stormed out of the interrogation room with nothing more than mutterings under his breath. Mycroft turned to Sherlock.

“What will his results tell me, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his list, which he threw onto the table in front of him. Mycroft reached forward and picked it up; the seven percent solution was there, as it had been frequently as of late, but in addition were several supplements that had been absent from Sherlock’s list since just after rehab.

“I needed to focus. My normal methods weren’t working,” said Sherlock. “I’m right, though. The baker is guilty and Siczinski’s only crime was attempting to go to the chemist for medication for his wife. Against his religion, yes. Against the law, no.”

“I believe you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft in a low voice. “You could have come to this conclusion without all of this, though. You know that. It’s not necessary to mix chemicals in order to solve a crime.”

“An innocent man would go to jail.”

“And so will you, if you keep this up.” Mycroft opened his pocket notebook and placed the list inside. “You are my brother, Sherlock, and I will always be there for you, but I sincerely hope my only use to you in the future is not to prevent a criminal charge.”

“That is your only use,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Mycroft. The door opened and Sergeant Lestrade entered with the handcuff key out and at the ready.

“Detective Inspector Jones says I’m to let you go,” said Sergeant Lestrade. Mycroft turned to Sherlock with a smile; Sherlock did not return it. Lestrade uncuffed Sherlock from the table and the three of them left the interrogation room together. Once in the buzz of the hallway, Lestrade spoke again. “What’s all this about the baker, then?” Sherlock glanced over.

“The baker from the shop on Westmoreland. The victim had been shorting him supplies for several years. He finally lost it and killed him with a rolling pin.”

“Huh,” said Lestrade. “Not Mr. Siczinski?”

“Nope,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade escorted the pair of them to the front doors of the station. “I know you’re a bright kid, Mr. Holmes, and I know you mean well,” said Lestrade again as he held the door open for them, “but maybe stay off of Jones’s cases for a while. He’s not a pleasant man at the best of times. I hate to see how he’ll treat you when you’ve really gotten under his skin.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Mycroft.

“Good night, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade.

“Good morning,” corrected Mycroft. Mycroft ushered Sherlock into his awaiting car. Once inside, Sherlock closed his eyes and lay his head against the cool window. “Do I need to take you back to your flat? Or will you come home with me?” Sherlock looked over at his brother, his temple still against the window.

“Just for tonight,” said Sherlock.

“I’ll take what I can get, brother mine.” Sherlock turned away again and Mycroft watched as his young brother, not yet thirty, drifted off to sleep in the car like he did when he was a child in his car seat, after Mummy had chased him around the park for hours. Mycroft had sat quietly next to Sherlock’s seat and ran his thumb over Sherlock’s tiny fingers, lightly, not wanting to wake him up again. It was a rarity to see Sherlock asleep like this, his face peaceful, his eyes gently closed, his long eyelashes abutting the apples of his chipmunk cheeks. He’d insisted on his pirate costume that morning so he wore brown boots with white leggings and a brown tunic cinched with a black belt. His riot of curls were tamed under a red handkerchief but his hat had been long lost in the wind. Mycroft asked where his eyepatch was and Sherlock replied he had not yet lost an eye, so no patch was needed. When Mycroft explained the eyepatch was more for improved vision going between the bright hull of the ship and the deck at nighttime, Sherlock demanded Mummy buy him an eyepatch for their next excursion.

“And why do you need an eyepatch, Sherlock? You have two perfectly working eyes,” said Mummy when she buckled him into his seat. “Two beautiful, ever changing eyes.”

“I need it to see at night! Mycroft said!”

“Ah, Mycroft said. All right then, Sherlock. We’ll buy you an eyepatch tomorrow.”

And then Sherlock fell asleep in the car, and Mycroft held his hand, and they were two brothers who adored each other when the other was not looking.


	6. Chapter Six

Detective Inspector Lestrade found him on the street like a vagrant, but the cut of his suit and the shine on his shoes identified him as someone with more resources than the common street dweller. Lestrade wasn’t really in charge of this sort of thing, not anymore at least, but the man wasn’t far from the crime scene and he more than likely saw or heard something, depending on the length of time he’d been there. He might be able to offer something, although Lestrade knew from experience never to put too much stock into a junkie’s testimony.

As soon as Lestrade turned the man over he recognized him. A deep sigh escaped Lestrade’s lips at the thought of what to do – turn back and leave him there in the alley for his brother to collect, or wake him up and take a gamble on what kind of mood would present itself. Lestrade decided to chance it, and with a few taps to the man’s hollow cheeks, Sherlock roused and looked up at Lestrade with vacant eyes.

“Ah, Lestrade,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” replied Lestrade. “Fancy seeing you here today. Did you know there was a double homicide just a hundred yards away?”

“No I didn’t,” said Sherlock and he sat up on his own volition, “but I would certainly relish in the opportunity to check it out.” Sherlock attempted to stand and Lestrade pressed a hand against his chest to keep him against the wall.

“I don’t think so. You’re high as a kite right now, Sherlock, and of absolutely no use to me like this. I’ve been a Detective Inspector for less than a month and I’m not about to botch the rest of my career by letting someone like you drag your feet all over my crime scene.”

“Yes, you have been promoted, haven’t you? And who’s responsible for that?” Sherlock asked. “It was the baker after all.”

“Yes, it was the baker. And the nanny was killed by her cousin, not her employer, just like you said. You’ve said a lot of good things in your time.”

“And I could say quite a few more,” replied Sherlock, “if you let me look at the crime scene.”

“No,” repeated Lestrade and his hand pressed more firmly against Sherlock’s chest as the thin man attempted to stand a second time. “You might be brilliant, Sherlock, and you might be able to solve this case before morning, but I refuse to work with you like this. You smell like death and you’re nothing but bones. Are you living on the street now? Kicked out of your flat again?”

“There was a disagreement with the landlady,” muttered Sherlock.

“That doesn’t surprise me. How about this? You find yourself a place to live – call your brother –“ Sherlock groaned in response. “- if you have to, call your brother – and if you piss clean I’ll let you look at a case on my docket.”

“No deal. I’m not looking at a boring cold case that I can solve in five minutes.”

“I have a good one. A month ago a young woman was murdered in her own bedroom, doors and windows bolted. No marks on the body, no toxins in her system. The house was thoroughly searched. There was no way in and no way out.”

“Who found her?”

“Her sister. After she had her father kick the door in.”

Lestrade watched as Sherlock’s mind began to turn through his haze, but nothing came out of his mouth.

“Do we have a deal, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good. Let me get you in a car – send you back to your brother.” Sherlock nodded again and followed clumsily behind Lestrade, who led Sherlock to the main road.

“Do you need my list?” Sherlock asked. Lestrade looked over, confused.

“Your list?”

“Yes, my list. Of everything.”

“I don’t want to see a list. I don’t want to be persuaded to change my mind,” said Lestrade with the wave of his hand. They left the alley and stepped onto the main road, causing Sherlock to blink violently at the streetlights. A woman approached from her station as the duty guard for the crime scene tape and addressed Lestrade first.

“Sir, the coroner is here.”

“Good, I’ll have a word with him. Donovan, I need you to drive Sherlock home.” Donovan’s expression immediately turned cold.

“He’s a junkie, sir. Why are we taking him anywhere except to a holding cell? Look at him; he’s going to puke in my car.”

“Look at you,” said Sherlock with the same revulsion upon his face. “Is Anderson’s wife still away?”

“Sir!” cried Donovan. “He is a worthless tramp with no respect for what we do here. He treats this like a game when people – real people with real lives and real families – are lying dead just beyond the tape! Look at him! He’s positively beside himself at the chance to see their bodies! Why should we extend him any sort of courtesy?”

“Because he is a real person too, Donovan, with a real life and a real family,” replied Lestrade. “I’ve heard quite enough. Take him home and come back here when you’re done. Don’t say another word.” Donovan shut her mouth but obeyed orders. She walked to her car and Sherlock began to follow. “Be nice to Donovan, Sherlock. She has a point.”

“When can I see the file?” Sherlock asked as if the conversation with Donovan had not occurred at all.

“When you’re clean,” said Lestrade. “And not a moment before.” Sherlock nodded and climbed into the back of Donovan’s car, where she violently slammed the door after him. As soon as she drove away Lestrade pressed his mobile to his ear.

“It’s me,” said Lestrade. “I found him. He’s on his way home.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft. “Did he accept your offer?”

“Looks like it. I’ll let you know if he follows through.”

“He will,” said Mycroft. “You’re the first person who’s ever given him a reason.”

Lestrade hung up the phone and watched the car drive away. If he was lucky, Sherlock would return and provide the consultation Lestrade desperately needed. If Sherlock was lucky, he’d no longer be bored.


End file.
